


HOW WE FELL

by eeshatrbl



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: 1940s, 1940s if it wasn't obvious, Blood, Character Death, Child Abuse, Con Artists, Gang AU, Gore, Guns, Homosexuality, KINDA SLAVERY, Kissing, M/M, Murder, OCs - Freeform, Romance, Slavery, Violence, WW2, Weapons, World War 2, criminals, i wanted an actual tag, i'll regret this later oh whale, rape/non con, san is oblivious, theives, they finna die, whatever that's called, wooyoung's absolutely whIPPed, y'all know ww3 is coming so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22223434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeshatrbl/pseuds/eeshatrbl
Summary: in which they fell in love at the wrong time.orwooyoung had san on his mind, when their lives were in bigger danger than their hearts.
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	HOW WE FELL

**Author's Note:**

> yes. i am brave.

There was the kind of snow where Wooyoung was born. White. Serene. Beautiful. The one where he remembered his mother’s songs, the small house near the winter forest, the frozen river where they went to play. The very ice that glistened in both good and evil. The snow that filled his mother’s lungs to the extent that she went to the wonderland where his father had gone years ago. The beautiful layer of whiteness all over the Pyeongyang mountains. Tiny wooden lodges scattered here and there. A small green patch for the Asian Yaks to feed on, a snowless area near the waterfall for the food to grow. Draped farmer boys ran and played all summer, the crimson skies upon the sunrise, and the pink horizon when the sun set. The overly starry nights, the green and purple northern lights—it was the beauty of the snow where Wooyoung was born.  
The avalanche, the screams, the asphyxiation, the death—that was how cold the snow was.

He didn’t blame the snow, though. He understood. He remained the same quiet boy he was, even when the entire neighbourhood thought otherwise, and told him to stay strong.   
It was completely stupid to be sent to an orphanage when his aunt was still breathing, well, alive, and was longing for a child. Then he thought about his uncle, that _bastard_ —war fanatic. It was quite self-explanatory after that. The man drove him to the place, dressed him up in the dirtiest rags out there, making him look like the boys on the streets. He pretended he didn’t know Wooyoung the entire time he talked to the orphanage warden, claiming he had _found him on the streets_ , and _wouldn’t allow a child of the Korean Land be left homeless_. Wooyoung’s two day company with the orphanage children taught him one thing. _Bullshit_. That was the word. The entire façade by his uncle— _bullshit_.

He was thirteen when he decided he had enough of the orphanage’s creaky wooden floor. Two days hadn’t even passed ever since his uncle’s _bullshit_ , that Wooyoung thought it was wonderful to steal the finest pair of trousers and a nice olive green coat from the wardrobe, and jump out of the window of the old, creaky house.

\----

There was another kind of snow—the one where Wooyoung stood now. The dried ashes that fell on the ground like flakes. The rare kind of snow which only the war children knew about. The one, only kind of snow which wouldn’t ever bring any joy. Doom. Doom is what it meant. Doom is what it brought. Doom is what it caused. War feed, missiles, bombs, weapons, chemicals, everything toxic. It was fuelled by odium, it could be felt all around him. He was a part of it too.

He didn’t really know much about the war. His history text books might have been engraved with what had happened nearly a decade ago, but his mind had a hard time understanding it. The statistics showed how poverty hit all around the world, and how there was a possibility of a similar event in the near future—Wooyoung called this bullshit too.

He thought the last time he would ever hear about this would be at that damn orphanage—turned out, nothing went well.

Two days after he was sent to the orphanage, he had run away from there. _Where to?_ He didn’t know. 

He just ran, on the city street glazed with ice. He would occasionally slip, fall on it, crawl into the nearest alley, and cry himself to sleep. The nicest pair of trousers and the olive green weren’t doing him the favour of keeping him warm anymore, and he swore he would die of starvation. 

That’s when he woke up in a large metal box, floor covered with cardboard as if it was some expensive carpet, and a boy staring right at him.

 _Hongjoong_. He learnt his name. The boy might not have hissed it at him, and stolen his portion of food—Wooyoung was too scared to complain. He didn’t know whom to complain to in the first place.

\---

The snow of ashes was for the privileged eccentrics. The mavericks, who hated what was happening, the ones who wanted the system to perish. Wooyoung was one of them. The bittersweet smile on his face showed his discontent. His disgust. He wasn’t going to surrender. He wasn’t going to bow down to the strange men taking his homeland away. He was the child of the Korean Land. He was not going to fall into their traps.

The snow of ashes wasn’t cold to touch. He bent down to take a handful in his fists—he could _feel_ the men who died in there.

He missed his mother. He sometimes longed that it wasn’t Hongjoong’s croaking that woke him up in the morning. The long haired boy—nearly a year older than him—loathed him so much, every action showed. Wooyoung wasn’t sure why he’d kick him every day when he sat against the wall to the extent that he’d be pushed into the metal. The only time he talked to him was when he wanted to order him around. _New kid, do this. New kid, do that._ Wooyoung was too petrified to oppose, or show any dominance.  
He was the third one to be put into that box. He was the third one to find out what exactly was that. They were trained—Hongjoong, Yeosang and him. Trained to steal. It was almost like a game, the rich potbellied men being obstacles, the pouch of gold in their waistcoat pockets being the mission, and the two slices of bread being their reward. They were marked—a circle was burnt into his arm while he yelped in pain.

Hongjoong didn’t treat him any nicer through the days, but he was a teensy bit intimidated whenever Yeosang threatened to bite him (even though the boy was too soft looking to be scared of) and retreated from whatever kind of bullying he did to Wooyoung. Yeosang would then crouch next to him and pat his head, sometimes take him into his embrace and make him feel a bit better about where he was stuck.

\---

Punishment nights became more common ever since Seonghwa came in. Hongjoong claimed he had finally found someone with a mentality similar to his and started slacking off with the now new kid. Wooyoung was called by his name now—which was still seethed out by the elder—and the new kid nigh on ignored his presence. Hongjoong was caught very often now. His loot was never even close to what he promised. His theft area shrank every time. He was even sent to juvenile jail once, and his bail cost three days’ bread for the four of them. To get away with any further suffering, Hongjoong would blame everything on Wooyoung. They believed him—he had lived here longer, and was more trusted.  
Sometimes the punishments were so severe, Wooyoung wouldn’t be able to move his fingers numbed with pain. 

One night he sat in the corner and silently sobbed to himself. He didn’t really expect it, but Seonghwa crawled near him, wrapping his arms around his scarred body, whispering words of comfort into his hair. Hongjoong had a change of heart soon after that, he supposed it was the new kid who convinced him into being nice to Wooyoung.  
They were young then, merely teenagers, but they were skilled. They moved sharp and precise, swift hand movements, some silver-tongued antics, and they had what they wanted.

Wooyoung watched them grow. He watched them cry for their family, he watched them scar, and he watched them improve. They opposed, they fought, and they grew close to each other. They laughed, they played, and they stole. It was in their blood now. They became stronger, taller, and bolder; their voices changed, their habits churned—but they were still the same. More came, and soon they were twice the number of boys than he had first been there.

\---

His gun began to feel heavy in his hands, the air hurt his lungs—but he stood there. He waited. He had promised. Within the snow of ashes, the new kind of whiteness on the terrain, Wooyoung stood—alert, sharp. He looked through his scope for any enemy, any intrusion. They were going to make it—San and him. It was a flaw proof plan.

It took him a lot of time to find out about what or _whom_ they worked for. They were _some disgusting men_ , according to Hongjoong, which wasn’t really a good description. Not Japanese was a relief. They were dressed in black from head to toe, barely showed how they looked like, always wore the gas mask from the German soldiers’ collections. They had raspy voices, rough hands and merciless actions. To be frightened by them was an unwritten, unbiased debate. They had guns in their belts, enough to make the fourteen-year-olds to quiver with fear. The boys tried to behave in order to receive food and not be punished, the sharp tools and the whip the men owned was something no one wanted near their skins. 

They had decided to run away—Hongjoong and Seonghwa specifically—it was daring of them to do so. Both of them spent three nights planning this out. Jongho, despite being young and naïve, helped them out, but didn’t have the courage to go with them. Yeosang packed the things for them, Yunho prepared for the distractions. Wooyoung wished them luck—that was the most he could do.

He wanted to go with them. He hated taking things away from people. He wanted new clothes, new places, new home—he was tired of the metal box and the obnoxious smell of damp cardboard carpet. But he was weak. Hongjoong had told that to him the other day, when Wooyoung tried to carry the hammer and break the locks of the metal box. He wasn’t wrong about it—however, it hurt. It hurt to the point Wooyoung stayed awake the entire week criticizing every inch of his useless, disgraceful, _disgusting_ self. He knew he was weak. He was a coward. He didn’t fight his uncle, he ran away from the orphanage, he never opposed the men, he never reacted to Hongjoong’s bullying. He always decided to stay safe and steal from the weakest of the targets. He’d usually get the lowest amount of loot back. He also got the least bread, but he never asked for more. He was worthless, and he knew it. _Heck_ , he felt it all over him.

\----

It was a Sunday morning. The soldiers were on a march near the cathedral. The priests gathered for preaching. The men didn’t like crowded places—Wooyoung didn’t know why. They would run away every time there was a soldier nearby, and Wooyoung thought it was some irrational fear. It was perfect for Hongjoong and Seonghwa to take their leave. They all came out of the metal box, briefed about what and whom they were robbing, and warned about the potential threats. They were told not to go close to the cathedral unless necessary, and stay in the market place. 

Luckily, Hongjoong’s target was the woman in brown silk dress with sunburst neckline, holding a briefcase in one hand, wiping her tears with the handkerchief in the other. Wooyoung knew she was sad. He knew if she lost the briefcase, she would be even sadder. There was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t warn her, he couldn’t stop the theft. He just watched as she talked to the priest, choking on her tears. He watched Hongjoong approach her, and instead of sneakily take the briefcase from her, he immaturely jumped in front of her, snatched it, and began to run.

He felt Yeosang pull him from behind. 

“Let them do it, Woo. Don’t divert attention to them.” He said, taking him into the market place to his task. Wooyoung didn’t have to steal any money. He had to bring in food from the baker, enough for all of them for the next few days. They were moving to a new city. Yunho said he had heard it was quiet an important city. To that Yeosang scoffed and responded with _Seoul_. Wooyoung had noticed how Jongho’s eyes lit up at the mention of that place, quickly assuming the boy was taken from there.

\----

Wooyoung could see Hongjoong far away, in the same pile of ashes as him, holding the same gun, alert. He still looked at him the same way, but the feelings had changed. They had changed ever since things hadn’t gone the right way.

About an hour later Yeosang had dragged Wooyoung into the heavy lorry—their metal room on wheels. They handed their loot to one of the men, took their day’s bread from them, and got in. Yeosang, Yunho and him decided to play a game before sleeping, and they waited for Jongho to come back too. A lot of time passed, and they grew tired of all the patience they tried to keep up. Exhausted and fed, the three boys fell asleep in each other’s embrace, feeling the warmth and oneness seep in.

They had felt the need of sleeping till morning, but the sound of Hongjoong crying woke the three up. The boy was screaming, and they could hear whips.

Where’s he?!” they heard from outside the closed metal doors.

In reply, they heard yelps and cries from Hongjoong. Wooyoung couldn’t see him, but he knew how harsh the beating was.

“I think Seonghwa made it out of here” Yunho whispered. The three sat in a circle, not too close to the door, but at the safe distance of hearing what was happening out there. Their bodies itched to help the boy, pull him in, comfort him, but they were all equally helpless.

The door opened the slightest, and the twelve year old body of Jongho crept in, closing it behind him. They began to shoot questions at him—about the boy outside. Jongho said he didn’t know much, except the fact that the cathedral guards had caught him, and Seonghwa had managed to run into the forest. The boys decided it was better to go back to sleep and pretend they didn’t hear anything that had happened.

\----

Hongjoong bled too much. His forehead was smeared with it. His arms were blue and black. He was thrashed onto the ground, and his whimpering was the last sound Wooyoung had heard before he forced himself to sleep. 

The morning was eerily silent.

The four boys stood around the eldest, who was in deep slumber even with the raging wounds on his skin. They questioned if he was dead already. Jongho pointed out he was still breathing. His chest heaved the slightest, and the weight of having a dead thirteen-year-old in the same place as them was lifted. 

However, when Hongjoong shot his eyes open, the boys took hurriedly stepped backwards as if they had experienced the dawn of the dead (not that after the incident Jongho liked to flatter himself, claiming that he saw the dead rise).

Initially, no one had the courage to speak to him. Hongjoong painfully whimpered whenever he tried to get up, or to the minimal— _move_. The sounds that escaped from his mouth, the way his face churned into a frown—Wooyoung could feel the pain himself. Sometimes Wooyoung wished they hadn’t tried this exodus stunt in the first place. But the feeling that one of them had gotten away from the hellhole was comforting enough to make him crack a smile full of hope. Hongjoong would whine when it hurt too much, he’d whine when he needed something, and he’d whine when it was too cold—but he’d freeze when he heard the men talk.

“How are you feeling now?” Yeosang asked, crouching down next to Hongjoong’s injured body. Wooyoung stood not too far behind him, holding two chunks of bread in his hand on Yeosang’s command.

Hongjoong just hummed in response, which sounded less hurt, less painful than the previous ones. He let out a relieved sigh.

Yeosang helped the boy up, holding his arms gently, constantly looking at his face for any sign of discomfort. “What…what did they do to you?”

Hongjoong looked at Wooyoung. “I don’t want to say it in front of him.”

“We’re all going to know one day. If it happened to you, it’ll happen to us—”

“No!”

Yeosang looked at him, silent and stunned.

“I don’t want anyone of you suffer what I have, Sang.”

Yeosang dolefully smiled. “Alright.”

“No, you don’t get it,” he was scared. Wooyoung could sense it all around them, “they—they…it hurts a lot. It hurts a lot!”

Yeosang tried to calm him down. Wooyoung didn’t know what to do. He just stood staring, bread still in his hand, unconsciously crushing the pieces.

“It hurts there” Hongjoong whispered into Yeosang’s shoulder, when the boy had pulled him into an embrace, rubbing his back.

“Where?”

Hongjoong slid his hands down to his inner thigh. “Here.”

\----

Wooyoung had kept a lot in. He was keeping it all in. He wanted to be like Yeosang. He wondered if he’d ever reach that point in time where he would be as strong, as brave, as comforting, as _wonderful_ as him. Wooyoung had always been the calm child. He kept his problems to himself, he hid everything very well, but Yeosang always knew. And he was always there. Wooyoung wondered how Yeosang ended up here. Hongjoong grew up in the metal box. He was the baby in a box, near the garbage can, on the cold war streets. Yunho was a runaway slave boy. Jongho just lost his family in the marketplace (that explained why the cried for an entire week when he came). Yeosang never told his story. He just knew everyone’s. He knew how to be there for others, but never showed the need of having someone with him. Wooyoung sometimes heard him cry in the middle of the night, but it wasn’t any different—all of them cried at night, for one reason or the other—so he kept quiet, even when the urge of hugging the boy, and singing him to sleep panged in his chest.

“Run!” Wooyoung heard San scream, all his attention drawn to the voice. He gave a quick glance to Hongjoong, who nodded at him, and let a breath of relief escape his nostrils, before making a dash to the jeep. He turned back at the sound of gunshots, seeing Hongjoong shoot back at whoever was aiming at them. He heard Yeosang yelling _I’ll take care of it_ , while San running ahead of him.

“Hurry up, Woo!” he shouted, gripping a brown bag tightly in his hands.

“I am!” Wooyoung replied.

\-----

San leapt over the fence, rushing right into the jeep. He threw the bag at Yunho in the driver’s seat, filling his gun’s barrel with bullets. He turned around to face Wooyoung for a moment, giving him a small smile, before jumping out of the vehicle and running towards Hongjoong and Yeosang. Wooyoung stopped and turned around, finding San hidden behind one of the gates, trying to find a good aim. Hongjoong was feverously shooting at every man he saw, while Yeosang had also found a hiding spot, where he refilled the barrel.

They were outnumbered. Wooyoung realized it, and hurriedly signalled Yunho to come near them. Wooyoung then ran towards San, dodging the bullets aimed at him, grabbing the tawny haired boy his arm.

“Let’s go.”

San brushed his hand away, scowled at him, and then continued shooting.

Wooyoung screeched. “San!”

“What?!”

“Let’s get out of here!”

San wanted to fight. His hurried barrel refilling, his hair stuck onto his forehead, his erratic breathing, his irrational adrenaline-fueled actions showed it. 

“Please.” Wooyoung pleaded. 

The boy sighed in response, lowering his weapon. “Get the other’s. I’ll distract them meanwhile.”

Yunho had developed the habit of howling with excitement whenever they managed to escape the enemies at the end of the mission. His howls were obnoxiously annoying, but the other boys didn’t seem to mind as much as Wooyoung did (who kept it in anyways), and sometimes joined him. San stood up and stuck his head out of the jeep, feeling the air brush his hair away, the cold breeze travel up his skin, relaxing his throbbing muscles. He roared out loud, and then laughed at his own stupidity.

Wooyoung smiled at that—it was mesmerising.

Even if he wanted to see the happiness clearly written on San’s face due to the smallest things, he tugged onto his pants, telling him to get back in. Yunho decided to be even more annoying, and started honking the vehicle. The combination of the jeep’s honks and San’s roars was very irritating—but neither of them were going to stop. It was to showcase their victory to absolutely no one on the abandoned countryside. This was the sound of freedom: of the boys, and of the Korean Land.

Wooyoung just smiled at that—it was alluring.

He had first seen San a few weeks after the Seonghwa incident. Hongjoong said he was a rich boy from Seoul. Unlike the rest of the boys, he came dressed in the finest coat and pants, a matching beret, and a glimmering chain on his neck (which disappeared the very next day). Unlike the rest of them, he didn’t cry, thrash or throw a tantrum. He gave his bread to Hongjoong when the latter came to threaten him. He didn’t open up to Yeosang. He did, however, eased Jongho when he cried. He pulled the small boy closer to him, placed his head on his lap, and patted his back. He sung him a lullaby in some unknown language, which everyone stopped to listen to, and he didn’t notice at all, his eyes were closed, and he was so focused. When he opened them, he was flustered and didn’t let a sound escape his mouth. 

Then, another boy, Song Mingi, joined them. He was the complete opposite of San. Staying collected wasn’t his perk. He was a mess, just like Yunho, and no surprise, they became the closest to each other in the matter of few days. Even then, San stayed there, back against the metal wall, the least portion of food, looking neat and fancy even if they had the least chance to take a proper bath. The only time he moved was when he was given a task. The only conversation he had was when he wanted to fight Hongjoong back (which was something no one had dared to do before).

Wooyoung thought it was better to observe from a distance. He wasn’t the one to initiate conversations, even if he dearly wanted to talk to the new kid. Everything about San was new. He had a strange name, he managed to look clean all the time, he spoke a new language, his hair were slightly lighter than the rest of them, his chain had disappeared—these things just ran in Wooyoung’s mind all the time.

“Where are you going?”

“The town.” San said, before jumping off the slow moving jeep, landing on the ground, rolling and then getting up. He brushed his long English coat, fixed his hair, and looked at Wooyoung, asking him if he looked presentable. Wooyoung froze for a moment, staring back at San with wide eyes. The boy had to repeat his statement to finally receive an approval from him.

“Be careful!”

San smiled. “I will.”

Seonghwa was special to Hongjoong. It took Wooyoung some time to realize why the other boy’s cheeks flushed whenever Seonghwa was brought up in their talks, and why Yunho always poked his arm during this conversation. It was a different kind of special, it was so special that even after seven years of the boy leaving them for his own good, Hongjoong would stutter whenever they talked about him.

Mingi was special to Yunho as well. But Mingi didn’t seem to notice. It made Yunho sad—which was something Wooyoung didn’t see quite often, neither did he wasn’t to see it. The smiles Yunho gave when Mingi was around was different from when he talked to anyone else. The bitterness in his eyes when Mingi got a different task, in the opposite direction, or far away—it was painful to look at.

“Why did San go to the town, hyung?” Wooyoung asked, hugging Yeosang from behind, looking over his shoulder to stare at Yunho struggling with the jeep engine, and Hongjoong constantly screaming at him whilst wiping the blood off his forehead.

“He got a girl. He was taking some bullshit of an advice from Jongho,” Hongjoong replied, quite irritated at Yunho now, “for fuck’s sake Jeong! That’s not how you do it!”  
“Out of all the people,” Yeosang pushed Wooyoung away from him, “advice from Jongho?”

The three laughed. Wooyoung forced himself to join in, trying to ignore the pang in his chest. He understood how Yunho felt.

It was against his routine to wake up in the middle of the night. He looked around to find the source of the sound (which was Jongho whining), just to notice San trying to push a sleeping Jongho gently off his lap. He then crawled away from him, slowly, trying not to hit any of the sleeping boys. When he was away from them, he stood up, taking off his coat and grabbing his shoes from the ground. He turned around, his eyes met with Wooyoung’s in the minimal moonlight, who promptly hid himself behind Hongjoong’s splayed limbs. He heard the footsteps nearing him, and when they were the closest—they stopped. He felt a tap on his shoulder. He thought whether looking up was a better idea, or pretending to sleep was going to get him through embarrassment. There was a tap again, and Wooyoung thought fuck it (something Hongjoong taught him) and faced the boy.  
San told him to get up, making signs with his hands, which he obeyed. He carefully got away from Hongjoong’s web of arms and legs, and stood right in front of San, who smiled at him, and whispered into his ear: “follow me.”

This was a bad idea. They were climbing out of the metal box, and walking towards the driver’s cab. Wooyoung wanted to voice it out, stop the boy or do anything, but the awkwardness of touching the boy and calling out his name stopped him from doing so.

“Stay here” he told him when they both stopped. They were outside the cab, with San cracking his knuckles, instructing Wooyoung. “I’ll go get the food.”

“T-The what?” he didn’t mean to be that loud, so he quickly covered his mouth.

San tried to suppress a giggle, and smiled. “You didn’t get any today, right? I heard everything. I know it’s supposed to be a punishment, but whatever. I’m not eating alone in the middle of the night.”

“You didn’t get any bread either?”

San showed him the right side of his face. A small bruise felt out of place on it. “Hongjoong took mine. What’s his problem anyway?”

San hadn’t been in the pickpocketing business for long. They both knew it, yet Wooyoung let him go into the driver’s cab—where the men were sleeping—and steal food. It didn’t turn out as planned. San was caught. He was dragged out of the cab by one of the men, who noticed Wooyoung foolishly staring, and grabbed him by the arm too. He took them both into the forest and pushed them into the tree.

“Whose idea was this?!” he yelled at them.

They both flinched, yet no one dared to answer. He repeated his question, this time slapping San on the same place as Hongjoong did. The boy winced with pain, bringing his hands to the abused area, trying to soothe himself.

Wooyoung didn’t want to see San hurt. He was new, unknowing, naïve and just stupid. He didn’t deserve this, and Wooyoung thought it’d be better if he took all the blame. “I—”  
“I did it. It was my idea” San cut him off.

“New kid?” the man looked at him, gripping his face with his hand, squeezing his cheeks.

“L-Let him go!” Wooyoung managed to say, but it was almost inaudible.

“I-I wanted to get more food” San screamed, distracting the man from Wooyoung’s pleading, “he didn’t do anything. I promise! I—”

“Go back!” he said to Wooyoung, still holding San tightly.

“I—”

“Go back in!”

Hongjoong smacked Yunho hard on the head, the other flinching with pain, then made his way into the town as well.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Yunho scowled at him.

“Government Slaves!” Hongjoong turned around and shouted back.

Wooyoung was too scared to tell anyone about this. He got in the metal box, greeted by Yeosang staring right at him, asking him for an explanation—Wooyoung couldn’t get himself to actually spill it. Only when Yeosang declared he was going to go out and check for himself, Wooyoung hissed at him and buried his face in his shoulders, crying and blaming himself for everything. Yeosang tried his best to comfort him. By the time morning came, and all of them were awake, he had calmed down and put on a shy smile.  
This time it was San who was thrashed onto the ground. He wasn’t bleeding, but he had dark wounds all around whatever skin was exposed (which was quite a lot since his shirt was torn, and his coat was nowhere to be found). He didn’t make any sound, managed to get up and smile at the boys, ask for a bit of water, and then try to touch his wounds, just to wince in pain and retrieve his hand. He tried to act okay, which hurt even more than a crying Hongjoong. The said boy started being _nice_ to San, which was something new to all of them. San, on the other hand, was disgusted by the sudden attention from the bully, and ignored whatever the boy had to say.

Wooyoung liked to think the smiles San gave him were different. Initially he didn’t notice what exactly he was trying to convey, but later it felt like an unknown comfort. Wooyoung liked it, even if it felt quite strange.

One night after he had returned from his task in a small restaurant in Guro-gu, he was the last one to come, and was sitting in the corner, eating his bread while the rest of them were asleep. He saw San getting up and making his way towards him. He got on the ground and crawled a bit closer to Wooyoung, sitting down just beside him.

“Hi” he extended his hand, “I’m San.”

Wooyoung wanted to laugh at that. “I already know that.”

“Er…” he still had his hand up, and waved a bit to catch Wooyoung’s attention. The boy shook his hand and smiled.

“In that case, I’m Wooyoung.”

“Just Wooyoung?”

“Jung Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung sat outside his and Yeosang’s camp, warming his hands by the fire they had made. 

_He got a girl._

He grimaced at the thought. 

He should be happy—that’s what friends do. He should be happy for him, but he wasn’t. Not even a bit. And he honestly didn’t know what exactly made his chest bubble with bitterness.

San peeped from behind the bushes, which made Wooyoung jump in surprise. He smiled as the boy walked towards him, sitting beside, and resting his head on his shoulder.

“Why’re you up?” he asked. His voice lulled the mayhem in Wooyoung’s body. Wooyoung instinctively brought his hand to the other boy’s head, and started brushing his hair with his fingers. He hummed, feeling the fast pace of the other’s heartbeat bleed into his senses, and the heavy breath filling the air around them.

“Why’re you panting?”

San withdrew his head from the comfort of Wooyoung’s shoulders, and looked at Wooyoung, wriggling his eyebrows mischievously. “You know why.”

Wooyoung’s face fell. “Disgusting.”

“I’m kidding” he laughed, going back to the initial position.

“So you didn’t fuck your town girl?”

“No” San let out a cough, “turns out the town girl was married to this Japanese hag, against her will, whatever. The old hag, however, caught us and set men after me. I haven’t ran so much in my entire life! Fucking hell, this is hard.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

San got up again, pulling out a bottle from his pocket. “This is fucking sad—let’s have a drink.”

Wooyoung was surprised. After all the exhaustion, the run and the heartbreak (he wasn’t sure if San considered it as one), the tawny haired boy managed to look so calm, as if both of them were having a picnic on a warm sunny day in the carefree garden of paradise. He looked at San. His eyes travelled down, trailing the waves of his neck as he gulped the liquid hastily. He stared into his eyes once he looked back at him—showing slight signs of giddiness already. He looked at San’s lips, eyes transfixed on his tongue that swept on them.

“Women are no shit” San spat, before taking another sip. Wooyoung decided—fuck it—and took the bottle from the latter’s hands, drinking up three big sips, cringing at the burning in his throat, and shaking his head trying to snap out of the blur.

He smiled. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“What do you know about them, huh?”

“My mother was a very nice woman” he replied, “so was my aunt.”

San laughed. “She was easily influenced, though. You’ve told me many times.”

Wooyoung just took another sip, then handed it over to the actual owner of the bottle.

“You finished it!” San turned it upside down, “hell, Wooyoung! I would have to get more of it now!”

“What does it even matter to you? It doesn’t do you any good.”

“Says the one who finished it.”

“I wasn’t the one to talk shit about the woman I love.”

San screeched at that. “You love someone?”

Wooyoung panicked, nervously tapping his knees, brushing the non-existent dust off his trousers. “You misunderstood, Choi.”

“Who am I kidding,” he spoke, “the only woman you actually talk to is that lady who begs for money in the market place. She’s treated pretty harshly for her age though, she should really stop doing that— _wait_. Don’t tell me you’re into old women.”

“What? No!”

“Then?”

“Then _what_ , Choi?”

San slid a bit more close to Wooyoung, digging his head even closer to his neck, his hair tickling the younger. “Who is it?”

Wooyoung decided it was best to change the topic, even if his mind spun a little by this time. “I wanted to learn to play the Erhu. I saw one man on the streets playing it. I didn’t know what it was called then, so I asked—”

He felt the weight of San’s head disappear from his shoulder. In a matter of seconds, San had used all his strength to grab Wooyoung by his arms and make him face him. His hair were dishevelled, forehead sweaty, but Wooyoung found himself inch closer to the other boy, and he noticed how he did the same. 

Just when San’s breath blended with his, the reek of alcohol became the only thing his nostrils took in, San spoke: “I know there’s someone, Woo. Tell me.”

And Wooyoung just looked terrified—terrified of the fact that he had been asked to label the things he was feeling at the moment. Terrified of the fact that San’s overly chapped upper lip, the one that contrasted the lower one he had just licked, looked so beautiful that Wooyoung was lost. Terrified of the next move San was going to make, because whatever he does, Wooyoung’s heart was threatening to jump right out his chest.

“Who?” he asked again.

And he mindlessly replied, “ _You._ ”

Wooyoung was sober enough to know he was going to literally die at any moment. He wanted the pull himself out of this entire situation, but his body froze at the spot, and his senses decided it was high time not to work. He couldn’t even comprehend San’s expression, which was very worrying. He didn’t know whether the boy had heard it, but the silence in the air somehow made him feel like his message was conveyed, unwantedly, of course. San loosened his grip around his arms, moving his head away from the prior position, and smiled.

“Who…who is the person under Hongjoong’s pistol grip?” he asked.

“What?”

San pulled out his own pistol, and tapped his fingers at the grip. “Here. He has a picture. I always wanted to know who it was.”

It surprised him. The fact that San nonchalantly shifted from the topic, if he had heard Wooyoung’s words. Or the fact that San decided to play deaf about that. Or the fact that San was too ignorant to even hear what Wooyoung said. San always surprised him in many ways. The quiet, timid boy he had first seen cramped up in the corner, hugging his knees, pretending not to know the language the other boys spoke, had now morphed into a strong, carefree man, who took things away without any hesitation, had absolutely no shame, and was independent in all ways but one—the life of crime. San was beautiful in Wooyoung’s eyes; the blemishes on his neck, the scars on his forehead, the bruises on his knuckles, the welts on his lips, and the blood on his hands—all mesmerised him. He thought about him all day, all night. He was different than the rest of the boys—the very fact that he stayed up all night with the endearing face of San and his hands on his skin flashing in his mind.

The feeling of disgust in his chest whenever he saw San with his hands wrapped around anyone that was not him made Wooyoung think he was a hideous person. The involuntary worries in his head whenever San didn’t return early from his spree made him think he was delusional. He didn’t even know what this was—the _difference_ in the way he saw San, the warmth in his chest in the company of the said boy. He wasn’t sure if this even happened in the world outside the supervision of the men.

The men were still there, richer, powerful, glutton, and hungry for anything more. They merged with the Anti-Japanese Movement, promising the theft of any kind of blue print from the army base, any kind of gunpowder from the factory, or any kind of human support or men for fight required. Hongjoong, Mingi, Yunho, Jongho, Yeosang, San and Wooyoung were all dragged into this. The marks on their skin was a contract—no matter how strong, how shrewd, how dauntless the boys had grown to become, they couldn’t run away. They just started to accept. They were provided with whatever they needed if they behaved, and they decided it was clearly enough for them.

San was different. So was Hongjoong. The only exceptions. The only ones who had seen the worst—once, twice, thrice, and a hundred times. They had grown used to it. All this _bullshit_ didn’t affect them anymore. The punishments that still kept Jongho up at night were a habitual thing for the both.

San scared him. He was reckless, stubborn, untroubled, and everything else he shouldn’t be in a system like this. He was far from concerned, the motto of his life—never give a fuck—all of this idiocy in San’s way of thinking made Wooyoung’s hair rise, heart beat out of uneasiness.

“It’s Seonghwa.” Wooyoung replied.

“The one they always talk about?”

Wooyoung hummed.

San closed the cap on the bottle, twisting it tightly one last time, before sliding it back in his pocket. He dragged himself away from Wooyoung, slightly, but the latter noticed. 

“Why is he there?”

“I don’t really know.”

Seonghwa. Hongjoong. It was noticeable back when the boy was with them, but Wooyoung classified it as some bond of understanding and playfulness. Maybe the fact that Seonghwa was closer to Hongjoong’s age than any of the other boys, or the fact that he’d let the latter climb into his bedding for a hug at night, that Hongjoong opened up to him the most. It wasn’t that Seonghwa hadn’t become the victim of Hongjoong’s initial bread bullying. The boy had come to get that day’s meal from Seonghwa, who instead of giving it, head-butted into his stomach, tumbling him down, and kicking him once on the shin, watching the boy wince in pain. It was established that Seonghwa was different. He didn’t understand why Hongjoong would be closest to the person who beat him up the first day, but Wooyoung was told to go with the flow. He had asked Yeosang questions about this, he felt like he needed to know why Hongjoong’s lips touched Seonghwa’s cheeks, and why would they giggle right after. Yeosang said he didn’t know the answer. Wooyoung found it hard to believe.

As morning fell, one of the men came out of the largest tent among all, told them it was time to pack up and move from the place, briefed them about where and why they planned to go, and called a kind of tipsy, bruised, smiling Hongjoong in the tent.

“Why would they call him in?” Jongho asked, putting his things in the bag.

Mingi cleared his throat. “I found him knocked out outside the police station last night.”

“So came the ‘we’re not safe here speech’” Yunho mocked.

“Where are the bruises from?” Wooyoung heard Yeosang say, full concern in his voice.

“I think one of the police men tried to suppress whatever he was trying to do.” The only witness replied.

“What do you think he was trying to do?”

“I don’t really know.”

The conversation died right after, mainly because each one of them knew what kind of person Hongjoong really was, and knew what possible dumb shit he was up to—Yeosang and Wooyoung knowing the most. The said boys helped each other undo the last of the tents, Wooyoung occasionally starting a small talk about the previous adventures they had, and other nostalgic stuff. He would however be cut off by San’s (obnoxiously) loud laugh at something him and Mingi were talking about. Wooyoung would be awestruck at the crinkles formed around the corners of the tawny haired boy’s eyes, but he had to play cool in front of Yeosang, so he would shake his head, and let out an annoyed sigh.  
The whiff of cow dung, fermented kimchi, and indigo dye told them they were at the southern borders of the country. Wooyoung felt the air brush on his face, as Yunho, the usual driver, sped through the country lanes. Yeosang and Jongho were in with him, both of them playing a game that consisted of slapping each other’s hands or something as such, and kind of looked very painful (Yeosang’s hands glowed red and were swollen, Jongho hissed at every loud slap on his).

Another couple of hours of driving and Wooyoung could spot the sea. Yeosang had volunteered as the driver, Yunho crawled to the back seat, placing his head on Wooyoung’s lap, and dozing off right after. He brushed the sleeping boy’s hair, watching his expression relax, soothing him.

The last time Wooyoung had seen the sea was in the ugly theatre back at Pyeongyang. The place stunk, there were beetles and other insects crawling freely on the seats. Men of all ages crowded that place. Women and children were secluded in the top right corner. Wooyoung tugged on his mother’s dress. He remembered how the linen felt under his fingertips. She smelled like jasmine—he knew it was the perfume the Arabic merchant gave her. He said she was beautiful. Wooyoung couldn’t agree less.

It was a movie about war. His mother was convinced it was academically needed for him, and there was no easier way to engrave facts in his mind than visualize them. His mother told him it was only fifteen minutes long, and this was the only time they could watch it. Wooyoung really didn’t want to go, but just to make his mother happy, he dressed up in the neatest clothes possible, grabbed a snack, and waited for the woman at the doorstep.

The movie had started with a scene of sunrise. The large sun rose from the borderless sea, the scene slowly illuminating. It was black and white—but Wooyoung could imagine the gold of the sky, the blue of the water. It was the ocean, the sea. The water shone. Each one of the waves glittered. It was beautiful—he stared at it with his mouth slightly agape, and he heard his mother chuckle.

“It’s the sea, Wooyoung-ah” she told him, “when you grow up, I’ll take you there. You can see it for yourself.”

It never happened.

The movie had ended. His mother claimed it was short, but it felt like hours for the reckless boy. She appreciated the film, asking him questions from his textbooks, while he had no interest in answering them.

“Welcome to Busan, fuckers!” Yeosang announced, earning a loud smack on his arm by Jongho, who laughed childishly at the blasphemy. Wooyoung shook Yunho awake, the latter being a groaning and yawning mess.

 _Samok Village_ , the signs read. The other jeep stopped right in front of them, making Yeosang hurriedly press the brakes, and jolt the vehicle to rest. He angrily got out, running right to Mingi, who was driving the other jeep, and kicked him on his shin.

“There are films,” Hongjoong started to speak, emptiness in his voice, “about Japan. The people, the ways, the war tricks. We need to get those.”

“What’s the plan?” San asked, dragging all Wooyoung’s attention to him.

Hongjoong pulled out a map of the village. He spread it on the engine-lid of the jeep, pointing at the topmost corner of the page. “It’s the back of the theatre. They try to brainwash people by showing them the glamour of Japan. The unwanted, cut off tapes are kept in the storage, ready to burn. They take out the dump on one particular day—if we ask around we’ll get to know.”

“We just get the tapes before they’re thrown out?” 

“Yeah.”

“What are the potential threats?”

“That’s all they told me. Since it’s a theatre, I’m sure we don’t need to carry weapons around.”

“For safety?” Jongho asked, clutching his gun near his chest.

“No.”

San’s face showed a bit of confusion. “Are we going to get a projector or a player?”

“They didn’t mention it,” Hongjoong’s eyebrows furrowed, “but technically, yeah. We have to play the films, right?”

“So we split up?” he questioned, “and where do we get the device?”

“We can literally borrow one from any one of the villagers.” Wooyoung spoke.

“Isn’t the shit we’re doing kind of criminal?”

“No one has to tell the villagers.”

It was decided. Two people were enough to get the films, Jongho and Mingi agreed on the task. Hongjoong said the ones with the ‘kindest faces’ would get the player from the villagers—Yunho, Yeosang and Wooyoung were chosen, followed by complaints from the three about dealing with the common men, pretending to be nice. Yunho, being the whiniest, was ordered to do the job alone, who huffed, cursed, and stomped away.

“The fuck are we going to do?” San yawned, stretching his arms up in the air.

“I’m going to search for a good drink.” Hongjoong said, grabbing an extra overcoat, and walking into the streets, irradiated by the last rays of morning sun.


End file.
